


A Final Holiday Interlude

by MissNessarose



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Also Last Christmas as a family, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kind of sad context but sweet content, M/M, This is right before they break up so, VC Secret Santa 2018, enjoy!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 20:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNessarose/pseuds/MissNessarose
Summary: For once, Lestat would like to have a wholesome Christmas Eve - one, at least, where they won't end up nearly killing each other. For once, he tries his best to keep their family unit together.Even if it is for one last time.





	A Final Holiday Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being set in 1861, the year before Claudia finally kills Lestat. The context is therefore very pre-divorce and a bit stressful, but also fluffy because Lestat Genuinely Tries His Best for Once. Happy Holidays, especially to my Secret Santa - I hope you enjoy it~!

Lestat has been dead longer than he’s been alive, yet it’s still strange that snow never melted in his hair. Not that it would ever  _ snow _ this far South, of course, but perhaps it’s wishful thinking for the holidays. He tries to remember what it was like to have fingers go numb from the cold outside. To remember frosty nights within cold castle walls, a crackling fire underscoring a cacophony of - 

But that was years ago. Years ago, of course - _ good riddance - _ and this is New Orleans, half a world away. The past is long gone, by now.  _ This _ is 1861, a century after that tiny point on the timeline, one that he’s sure will stretch on to infinity if he plays his cards right. This is 1861, and some long nights Lestat wonders if he’s the only one holding the godforsaken trio together anymore. He’ll sooner give Louis and Claudia away over his dead body, though, after spending this long between a dark heaven and a wretched hell, and Lestat is absolutely sure that unless he kills either of them first, he’s in this for the long run. 

Knowing that, he’ll be good god damned if this Christmas season passes without any true festivity in their household, versus the usual sulking and toleration that they’ve endured in years past. Lately, Louis is an absolute nervous wreck, and Claudia would rather spit on Lestat than let him cuddle her. Still, Lestat starts praying now to whatever higher power orchestrated and led him through this wretched life that tonight, at least, they don’t end up killing each other. There was a rare good Christmas Eve here and there in his scattered memories, of course, a beautiful moment or truly enjoyable night - but all too often even the best of their nights together preceded some level of imminent guilt or grief or doom.  _ Not this year,  _ Lestat promises himself, knowing full well it will require an immense amount of patience on his part. There’s a narrow line between suggesting a pleasant evening and  _ forcing it _ , so he’ll have to see how the rest of the night plays out at this rate.

“We’ll take things as they come,” Lestat reassures himself once more, hooking his coat neatly on the rack by the door. “And maybe for one night we won’t be at each other’s throats, hmm?” 

As if to start everything in motion, there come rapid footsteps on the stairs behind him and slender arms thrown about his waist from behind. Years ago, Lestat would have held her and twirled her in his arms. She hates that now, and would squirm and fidget until he neatly put her back down.

“Who were you talking to?” 

“No one, my darling. Merry Christmas.” 

Claudia sighs, in a way that sounds entirely grown despite her stature. “It isn’t  _ yet _ , Lestat. Not until midnight.” 

“A technicality,  _ cherie. _ A half-hour early is close enough. Not important.” He kisses the top of her head where her curls part, and she allows it for the most part before pulling away to wander into the candlelit parlor. Were she little, she would relish that unnecessary doting. Now, Claudia would rather do without it all. 

Even so, her eyes still twinkle like the glass ornaments they’ve put on the tree in the corner since they brought Claudia into this home. Lestat had largely put up the meager decorations around the home, if any, mostly for his own comfort and amusement. Their home felt bare, compared to the candlelit windows and wreathed doors on the rest of the street. So, despite Louis’ nagging otherwise, he’d always favored  _ some _ decor over nothing at all. And Claudia had picked out this set herself perhaps a decade ago when she felt the old ones had lost their appeal, when she was still young enough to delight in the wrapped gifts under the tree and cherish in both her fathers’ company, and innocent enough not to know any better. 

Lestat hopes he can generate  _ some _ of that old delight in her tonight, if anything. “Have you seen Louis yet tonight?” 

“Still out.” One finger toys idly with the piano keys, but she doesn’t have the heart to start a true piece. Bored, almost, with it, the same way she seems bored with every other aspect of their lives. 

_ Still out doing god knows what,  _ Lestat thinks, though he knows better than that. It’s the same as clockwork, every year, that Louis disappears upon waking for some hour or so before making his way back to the house. To wander the graveyards mourning Christmases past, more likely than not. Why Louis sought to torture himself on a regular schedule every winter was beyond Lestat, but he won’t put up a fuss about it - not tonight. Tonight, he’ll cater as much as he can bear, in an absolutely foolish attempt to find some peace in this place.

If a half-century has taught him anything, it’s to let Louis do as he likes when it comes to grief.

He’ll go to church, too, around midnight. Watch from a secluded, shadowed spot overseeing the first floor pews below, and wander back home once his bloody tears and bitter memories get the better of him. 

Judging by the sound of the front door clicking shit, it was rather soon this year.

Claudia turns her head briefly at the sound of the door, but doesn’t go after Louis when there’s feet on the stairs, heading up and out of earshot above. She knows better than to bother him like this.

Lestat, however, does  _ not _ , so he heads upstairs.

* * *

Ensnaring Louis and his attention still resembles hunting a wild animal in many respects: move slowly, speak softly, and pay attention at all times or you’ll lose him entirely. Even now, Lestat still hasn’t quite perfected the craft. He doubts he ever truly will.

But this long with their little unit has taught him the clumsy routine their Christmas Eves traditionally run, and with that much experience at hand, Lestat is confident in his ability to bring his partner downstairs before midnight has chimed in.  _ Not a problem.  _ The method, after all, is always the same.

“Find wherever he’s secluded himself off to, pry just enough to get him to talk, coddle if need be, and then drag his ass downstairs to try and enjoy this night before it fades into the morning and the moment has passed entirely.” Every step on the staircase is one second closer to the make-or-break instant that can make tonight perfect, or send it into a tailspin. Lestat takes a deep breath, and takes the last step. “So do all that, and be patient, and….pray, I suppose.” 

“I’ve done enough of that tonight,” a voice sighs from the shadowed bedroom. The only light comes from the fireplace in the corner, casting harsh shadows on the planes of Louis’ face. He doesn’t turn when Lestat enters, too focused on something lost in the dancing flames. As expected, his cheeks are faintly ruddy after being wiped clean of bloody tears so many times tonight. Some smudges of red still sit underneath his shadowed eyes, and he makes no move to clean them away. 

“Hmm,” Lestat settles for saying, as he takes his time crossing the room. “I thought so. Have to get that out of the way every year, like you always do.” 

“You talk as if it’s foolish. As if there’s no point to withholding one semi-permanent tradition.”

“Traditions are fine, love, as long as they don’t leave you a wreck like this always does - ”

“Oh, don’t patronise me!” 

For once, Lestat holds his tongue.  _ Off to a bad start, _ he tells himself, frustrated with the usual back-and-forth that their conversations always dance, never going anywhere in particular.  _ Let’s try this again _ .

“Alright,” he tries. “I won’t intrude as to  _ why _ , of course, but are you at least done torturing yourself for tonight?” 

Louis spits, “Why do you care?” with a harshness only reached through the residual misery tonight’s fit of desolation has brought. “You don’t  _ care,  _ Lestat, you never do…” 

He’s tired himself out, crying all night. There’s no sob catching in his throat, but a few more messy tears slide down over sharp cheekbones to stain the lapels of his tailored jacket. 

“How do I help, then?” Lestat asks instead, biting his tongue the whole time. His patience has always been worn thin, between Louis and Claudia, and tonight is quickly becoming a matter of willpower, more than anything. Downstairs, Claudia takes up playing on the piano in her boredom and a somber, melancholy piece begins to float its way up the stairs. 

“Come here,” he insists, offering a hand that Louis doesn’t even acknowledge, let alone  _ take _ . “Come  _ here _ , I won’t bite, love.” 

The joke falls flat, of course, but Louis moves where he’s pulled without much resistance, falling forward against Lestat and allowing himself for one moment to be held in that embrace before the rest of the sobs trickle out.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Lestat starts dancing - he holds on and simply leads, because he knows Louis has no choice but to follow as best he can. 

“You’re stiff when you dance, darling,” Lestat says, biting back a laugh. Louis is still half-crying against him, having exhausted himself quickly. It isn’t clear if he’s even noticed the dancing motions, merely swaying back and forth at Lestat’s lead. “You always  _ have _ been stiff when you dance. Do you know that? I bet you were always this stiff.” 

He doesn’t say  _ when you were alive _ , this time.  _ Alive _ always sends Louis into some retrospective spiral of self-loathing and past lives, and it’s a disaster Lestat would like to steer clear of as much as possible. When another minute has passed and Claudia has favored a new waltz downstairs, he dares for a few fancier steps - a spin, a twirl, a silly little dipping move that nearly knocks Louis over - that end up having his partner half-smiling where his head rests against his collarbone.

“You’re absurd,” Louis chuckles, sounding tired. He’s always tired. “Absolutely absurd, Lestat. I don’t think I’ll ever understand you.” 

“Ah, darling, if you ever fully understand me, then I’ve stopped being interested in every single way - ” Louis scoffs at that, “ -  _ or  _ you’ve simply calmed every ridiculous impulse out of me, though my money is on the former rather than the latter.” 

Louis hums some manner of agreement against him, continuing to sway at Lestat’s guidance. Claudia’s piece turns angry some minutes later, a furious, rapid-paced monstrosity that seems to shake the whole house. 

In the silence, Lestat speaks. “Hmm. She certainly sounds angry,” he says, after a long, quiet moment. That alone, for whatever reason he can’t follow, sets Louis off into tears against his shoulder, and their dance slows to a halt. 

“You know,” Louis hums, with a lilting tone that implies secrets he shouldn’t be telling and a desperation that implies he doesn’t care about the latter, “She’s unhappy.”

Lestat keeps dancing, just to fill the silence. He can practically see this conversation dragging their night into the usual hell, but there’s nothing much to do about it now. “And? She’s always unhappy.” 

“She wants  _ more _ , Lestat. You know this. You’ve always known this.” 

“She won’t get more than this. We have nothing else to give her.” 

It answers their unspoken question nicely, doesn’t it -  _ we  _ have nothing else to give her. Lestat doesn’t understand until well after the fact the entire poetic justice of that line alone. He almost regrets not including it in any memoir, just for its element of strange, eerie foreboding.

“She won’t leave, Louis. Not you.” ( _ She’d leave me willingly, bless her wicked little heart. _ ) “She would never, darling, she loves us. You know she never would.” 

Still, it feels like every second he lets Louis in a little more, he locks Claudia out a little more too.

It’s a sacrifice he’s rather willing to make, in particular for the sake of saving tonight - although, his holly-wrapped daydreams are quickly becoming less a goal of attaining perfection and more a goal to simply sit downstairs without anything catching fire before the night is over. If not for himself, it’s for Louis - he doesn’t know why, exactly, but it  _ is _ , if anything. Something for Louis after so many years of pathetic tears. Once Lestat decides on this, he realizes that it’s quiet. 

“Come downstairs?” he asks in the stillness, once his thoughts have all quieted and the present has come back, full-speed. “One good Christmas, Louis. One where we behave and aren’t ready to tear each other apart. Like when Claudia was little.” 

“That feels like centuries ago.” 

“Ah, if only.” His teasing, at least, garners a laugh. It’s a start. It’s  _ something _ . “I can’t imagine her being as old as we are now, can you? I don’t think she would enjoy it as much as you are I.” 

“ _ Enjoy _ isn’t a word I’d choose,” Louis murmurs softly, and Lestat doesn’t comment. It’s an argument for another night.

“One good Christmas Eve, for her. She needs it, I think, more than either of us.” 

Louis nods against his shoulder, but shows no indication of moving any time soon. 

“One last good Eve,” he mumbles, with a sincerity that strikes Lestat as odd.

“Why  _ last?” _ he replies, as they sway. “Why not this one, and every Eve after it?” 

Louis laughs against his shoulder, but it sounds tired in every way possible. “You wouldn’t understand.” His chuckle wraps around a sob, and he shakes his head again. “I don’t understand.” 

_ Some guilty semantics, no doubt,  _ Lestat supposes, and ignores the idea despite the worry it inspires.

“So we’ll behave ourselves? Just for one night, not try to throw each other into the yard?” Lestat asks again, just for clarity’s sake. “One quiet, still night, to counter all the others we’ve shared?” 

“Of course, Lestat. I don’t see why not.” 

Finally,  _ finally _ , Louis smudges the last of his tears away and presses their lips together in a moment that is just enough and yet not any time at all. It’s gone so quick that Lestat isn’t sure if he imagined it.

Midnight strikes, then, a long echo on every tall clock in the house, and he steals another selfish kiss before leading Louis to the stairs. Claudia waits impatiently at the bottom, curled around the end of the banister like she always used to, hurrying first to the tree while her fathers try helplessly to keep up.

“Merry Christmas, Louis,” Lestat whispers against his cheek, with one last kiss to start the evening properly. “May we have many more like it.”

* * *

When Claudia tires of the trinkets she’s unwrapped, she turns from the fireplace and studies the way her fathers are draped across each other on the couch, idly slumped together in a comfortable mess. “Can we go outside?” she asks, already heading to grab her cloak. “I want to see the candles in all the windows, and see the parties winding down inside.”

“Of course, my dear. What would a Christmas of ours be without a wander around town?” 

She drags them both out into the cold, hurrying a few steps ahead to silently take the town in as if they haven’t done this every year, and she doesn’t know the streets by heart. Behind her, Louis trips alongside Lestat, pale and trembling.

“You’re trembling, my love. Perhaps we should get you something to eat?”

Later, when they’ve tricked a drunk couple into their parlor near dawn and Lestat is woozy from the alcohol in the man’s blood, Claudia asleep after detaching herself from the woman’s throat, and Louis drops the woman’s wrist from his mouth, Lestat wipes the blood sloppily from his lips and laughs at the ridiculous scene spread across their dining room table. The night wasn’t perfect, of course, but it was the best he could manage, perhaps, and it was a good enough attempt as any.

Lestat chuckles mostly to himself, and Louis abhors the gleam in his eye as he does.

He knocks a chair aside to take Louis’ face in his palms and press a messy kiss to his lips, laughing softly as he does. “Merry Christmas, Louis,” he chuckles. “And  _ what _ a toast, of course, to the year ahead. To you, and to  _ us _ , and to the days ahead of us.” Another kiss, quickly, to punctuate the well wishes, one that Louis accepts but doesn’t respond to in the least. 

“Of course. To you, Lestat, and to the coming year. May it be a better one in every respect than the last.” 

_ What a wicked creature fate was, to return that wish to them in so many unexpected ways. _


End file.
